


Kneel Before Me

by just_kiss_already



Series: Spiraling [4]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Biting, Blood and Torture, Bloodplay, Face Slapping, Knifeplay, M/M, Manipulation, Threats, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 01:17:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3791197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_kiss_already/pseuds/just_kiss_already
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dreaded phone call and it's aftermath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The phone rings three times before it picks up, and Matt can’t breathe.

It’s been two days since the phone call. Karen brought everything they would need to work from home, it’s not particularly hard since they rarely get office calls. Matt’s alter-ego has had to take the time off, since Foggy’s staying with him. Pretty hard to get a minute alone. Not that he particularly wants one. It’s given him time to recuperate as well.

But he knows he can’t put off the call any longer, not without risking some serious repercussions.

Three rings, and then that silky voice.

“It’s good to hear from you, Matthew. I was starting to worry.” There’s a pause, but Matt has nothing to say, and even if he did he can’t speak, his voice is trapped behind the tightening in his chest and the lump in his throat. Wesley tsks. “You’ve been unfaithful, I’m disappointed.”

“Wh-” Matt starts, but stops. That’s why there hasn’t been an attack. They’ve been under surveillance the whole time. Of course. It had been a risk to stay in his apartment, knowing full well that Wesley would be able to find him by just opening the phone book, but he’d thought he would be able to protect them. A foolish risk. “What do you want?”

“No. Not so fast. I want to talk about your friend. Your… law partner, I believe. Don’t you know not to mix business and pleasure?”

“Don’t talk about him. I won’t-”

“You’ll do as I say,” Wesley interrupts. His voice is firm and it sends an unwanted shiver down Matt’s spine. “I wasn’t particularly happy, but it proved entertaining at least. But, really, Matthew, what a poor substitute. If you were going to miss me that badly, you could have just stayed.”

Matt’s lips curl into a snarl, he wants nothing more than to wrap his hands around the man’s throat and squeeze until his voice is stopped.

“I’m going to text you a location. I expect you to be there tonight. No delaying, no waiting. You will be there at 11 pm sharp.”

“Do you think I’m an idiot?” Matt scoffs.

“No,” Wesley murmurs, and his voice is so low and smooth, and Matt remembers that voice purring in his ear. He remembers his hands. “But I do know that you’re in desperate need of my ministrations. And I miss you, Matthew, I miss your eyes.”

The quiet click lets Matt know that Wesley has hung up. Another chime, alerting him to a text.

Matt clenches his fists, trying to quiet his swelling rage before heading back into his apartment. And giving himself time to think of an excuse to get Foggy to go somewhere safe before 11 rolls around.

 

\---

 

Matt stands in front of the abandoned warehouse Wesley had given him the address to. He’s dressed for fighting, expects it, but without the mask, just glasses. Just Matt Murdock, nothing else. He stares up at the building, watching the liquid fire outline shapes before melting away, burning ocean waves. This is such an obvious trap, and how much of a fool did he have to be to come here?

But he couldn’t stay away. God help him, he couldn’t and didn’t want to stay away.

He thinks about the choice of location. Unfamiliar, full of old machinery in unlikely locations, no doubt. Quite possibly the worst location for a blind man, even one with his unique abilities.

Cane tapping, he walks in, all senses on full alert. He could smell Wesley’s cologne, hear his watch. Distant. There’s the smell of one other person, unfamiliar, and the smell of gun oil and carbon. He hears the quiet crackle of static on an ear piece. Wesley’s voice is murmuring, on the phone from the lack of response. Matt follows the sounds and smells, cautious. Body tense.

The stranger is first up. Matt stops, shifts his feet, arms raised. Boxer stance. Ready. He can’t dodge a bullet but he’s still hopeful that this encounter won’t end in his death. He should have worn the mask, he thinks belatedly, come in a back way and interrogated Wesley.

Instead of going for his gun, or even tensing up, the stranger’s heartbeat remains even, slow. A bodyguard, Matt surmises. “Mr. Wesley is waiting for you inside, Mr. Murdock.”

Still wary, expecting an attack from behind as he passes the man, Wesley steps into the room, staring over the tops of his glasses to try and get a more distinct impression of the room, using all of his senses. Large, fairly empty except for load-bearing pillars and a large wooden table with chairs. He can smell the ancient cedar and the mold, the crumbling concrete, the damp. The echoes of their breathing gives the room depth and dimension. 

“You have a thing for industrial architecture,” Matthew says, removing his glasses and putting them safely in his pocket. When Wesley replies, he uses the sound to pinpoint him further, to gauge his mood.

“After our time together, I certainly do.” He’s calm, his heart is a little fast but it’s from anticipation. Of course he’s not nervous, he has an armed bodyguard in the hallway. “Not your usual attire, I like it. Very… revealing. I appreciate your efforts to impress me.”

Matt’s lip curls up in a sneer, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. His heart is pounding, his hands sweating, but so far his mind is fairly clear.

Wesley pushes off from the far wall he’s been leaning on, coming closer, his steps ringing with confidence and ease. “Come here, Matthew.”

“No,” he snaps before he realizes he’s saying it. “This is close enough.”

The sound of a tongue being run along teeth. Disapproval. Irritation. Muscles bunching and releasing repetitively. “Would it help if I called you Matty?” Wesley sneers.

Matt slides his right foot back and drops his cane to the ground, but leaves his hands loose at his side, inhaling and exhaling slowly. Controlling his temper. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Now, that’s what I’ve been curious about. When you left, I was amazed at your fighting ability. Truly impressive, especially for a blind man. And even now, your first instinct is to attack.” The rustle of his suit alerts Matt to his moving closer, to the right; Matt shuffles to keep him in front. “You get that from your daddy, Matthew? But he was just a boxer, wasn’t he?” More walking, more shuffling, until Wesley is between him and the door. But also between him and a bullet, potentially. “I’m going to make you spill all your secrets, Matthew.”

“Good luck.”

Wesley laughs then. “You’re just full of pluck. Charming.” He’s on the move again, circling but silent, and his heart is starting to speed up. He wets his lip with the tip of his tongue. “Come here, Matthew.”

Matt simply snorts, not even deigning to comment. He hears the command, feels the pull of it, and the dark part of himself that he’s been struggling so hard to ignore, to squash, is surging forward, filling him. The part of himself that remembers the pleasure that accompanied all the pain. That craves both in equal measure.

“Matthew,” Wesley murmurs, a clear warning, dangerous. “I was hoping you’d be less… willful this time around. I really don’t want to have to call Francis in here, have him put his gun against your lovely temple.”

Stuck. His back is to the entrance and the bodyguard again. If the man tries to approach him, he’ll hear and be able to fight him off, he’s definitely the bigger threat, but Matt sincerely doubts Wesley came unarmed himself. Not a gun, no, Wesley is partial to knives. And chemicals.

“Come here!” Wesley commands. His voice is ice and steel and the edge of a knife and Matt’s knees goes weak. His muscles loosen, his shoulders drop.

The first step is difficult. The logical part of his mind screams. It’s a trap, it’s dangerous, he’s going to die. It reminds him of Foggy waiting for him.

The second step is so much easier; he stops paying attention to those warnings, instead finally letting down the barrier holding his darker self in.

A burning hand touches his arm, pulls him close. Into a hug. Matt stiffens, shocked, confused, then melts a little into it, resting his head on Wesley’s shoulder. This is entirely unexpected and consequently even more frightening.

The knife in his side is not unexpected, however. It wasn’t meant to be deadly, there was hardly any force behind it, and Matt is able to deflect the arm holding it, having felt the subtle shifts in the muscles and tendons before the strike. He was slow, though, and it sliced both shirt and skin, a shallow cut, and Matt wonders if he wanted it. 

With a noisy clatter, the knife lands several feet away. Both men are still, waiting for the other to react. And at the entrance, the bodyguard shifts, undoubtedly looking in to check on his boss.

“Open your eyes, Matthew.” Another command. A very familiar one.

He doesn’t hesitate. The fire is flickering, licking everything, morphing. He can barely make out Wesley’s face, can see he’s smiling.

“Get on your knees.”

No. No, he won’t. The feel of the blood sliding down his side, close to his old knife wound, now stitched again for the second time, steels his resolve.

“Oh Matthew, and here I thought you’d remembered your place.” Still smiling. His voice is lower, rougher with excitement, Matt can hear his blood rushing. “Get on your knees, or else I order my sniper to shoot your friend. Did you honestly think we wouldn’t follow you? Are you that naive?”

The ground is cold, hard, and hateful under Matt’s knees.

The whisper of fabric, and Wesley is holding a small knife against his throat. Matt almost wishes he’d just go ahead and finish this, kill him. He deserves it. For getting Foggy involved, putting him in danger.

But no, just a small slice, a flick of the wrist, and the blood trickles down to soak the neck of his tshirt. Cold metal against his cheek, another shallow cut. And another next to it. The hiss of air as Wesley’s arm is pulled back, and then the butt of the knife is slamming into his mouth, breaking open his scabbed lips. Matt falls back on his heels, startled by the escalation, but he doesn’t move when he feels Wesley grabbing his shirt, the knife at his neck again.

“Get up.” Wesley lets the knife nick him repeatedly as he struggles to get up before grabbing his arm and dragging him to a chair, forcing him down into it. “Francis,” he calls out, and the bodyguard trots up obediently. “Go ahead and secure him. He’s having some difficulty listening.”

Duct tape winds around his arms from wrist to elbow, binding him to the chair. Same for his legs, ankle to mid-calf. Uncomfortable, to say the least.

There’s a rustling of canvas on the table, a zipper hisses, and then clinking. Knives. Laid out on the table. Waiting for their turn to be used. Matt grits his teeth and turns his face away, not just out of fear, though.

Out of shame.

He can’t wait for Wesley to start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a fanmix! These are some of the songs I listen to while working on this series. https://8tracks.com/justkissalready/spiraling  
> Also, I have to work a couple 12 hour days, so the update might be a bit late!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt must be taught to obey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Self-beta'd, please be kind.

There’s a slight buzz of electronic static, the bodyguard’s earpiece, and he speaks up from where he’s lurking, several feet away and against the wall directly in front of Matt. “ETA 28 minutes, sir.”

There’s a sinking feeling in Matt’s stomach, his feet and hands go completely cold, numb. There is nothing good that could possibly be on it’s way. With Wesley, there is no good. Only bad, and sometimes worse.

Except, except… When his hands are on him… 

The slap that brings him out of his own head is backhanded and strong enough to rock the chair on its two back legs. For a brief second the pain fills him so entirely that his other senses dull, the world feels gray, but it comes rushing back with the smell of Wesley's cologne and the ticking of his watch. 

"I'm not exactly mad," Wesley says. He's standing in front of Matt, close, a wall of feverish body heat. His hand cups Matt's face and his thumb runs across his lips, smearing his blood across them like gaudy lipstick. "No, honestly I'm more disappointed. I expected better of you, Matthew." The thumb presses, forces it's way in past his lips, but Matt keeps his teeth clenched tight. "I thought your presence here indicated your willingness to obey me. After all, I'm only giving you what you want."

Matt stiffens, jerks his face away when he feels Wesley move his own closer.

"Open your eyes, Matthew."

The vicious whisper. The command he's been conditioned to obey.

"Good. Now, open your mouth, just like that first time."

Matt still has his head turned away, tendons in his neck vibrating with tension. The hand and thumb reappear, but still he refuses to allow them entry. 

Wesley takes a step back, moves to the table with clipped, angry steps. The hiss of a knife being lifted off of the fabric. "I've given you ample opportunity to listen to me. Though, to be perfectly honest, I prefer it this way."

The collar of his shirt is lifted away and the knife slices through it, the point nicking his chest and belly as the fabric is shredded. Wesley pushes the material away, baring his bruised and battered skin.

The cold metal disappears and Wesley sighs. The sound alerts Matt, warns him so he doesn't jump when Wesley strokes his stitched wound, the one he got from the Russians what seems like an eternity ago. 

The knife point is placed against the stitches and Matt begins to shake.

The sharp point bites in slowly, digging into his skin, working its way under the first stitch before being pulled up and out. The stitch holds, resists, until the knife saws through it. 

Matt exhales a shuddering breath he didn't know he was holding. He's shaking harder.

In the point goes again and a trickle of blood slips down his side. Matt tries to hold still, afraid the knife will cut deeper if he struggles. It's so hard. When the knife begins to saw again, slicing through barely healed scab and tender flesh, he grunts, unable to help himself, clutching the arms of the chair. 

"No," he rasps as the point begins to cut in for a third time. "Stop-"

Wesley's heart is racing, his breathing is heavy and wet. Even the bodyguard's heart is starting to pound and there's a faint noise as he licks his lips. 

The third stitch is cut and Matt slumps in the chair. 

The knife does not return. Instead, Wesley runs his fingers through Matt's hair, pushing it back, before the hand slides down the side of his face. Wesley's thumb rests on his lips and Matt opens his mouth. 

"Better," Wesley murmurs, his voice oily and pleased. 

His thumb is salty, smells of lemon and grass, some kind of expensive soap. It enters his mouth and Matt wraps his lips around it. He's unsure how else to proceed, though, so he runs the tip of his tongue along the pad and tells himself he's only doing it because of the punishment if he refuses. 

"Much, much better." The hand withdraws, replaced instead with the edge of a blade, rest on the corner of his mouth. "I think I want to give you a scar. Something everyone will see when they look at you. A reminder, a... proof of ownership, if you will."

The bodyguard interrupts. Staticky mumbling from his earpiece and then he speaks up. "They're pulling in now, sir."

Thankfully, this distracts Wesley enough that he forgets about cutting Matt's face. For now.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Self-beta'd, please let me know if there's any mistakes.

Distant footsteps. Three, maybe four sets of feet. Plus one that is being partially dragged. Smell of sweat, guns, kevlar. Muffled yelling from behind a gag. A distinctly familiar smell, a combination of aftershave and soap and laundry detergent, and Matt's heart plummets, angry burning tears prickle behind his eyes.

Wesley has moved to stand next to Matt, facing the door, his hands absent-mindedly running through Matt's hair.

"No," Matt moans as the group nears. "No..."

"Remove the gag, gentlemen," Wesley calls out when they've arrived at the door. His hand stills, grabbing a fistful of Matt's hair, forcing him to keep his head up so that their captive can see his bloodied face. 

"Matt?" Foggy yelps.

Matt starts to speak, starts to apologise, but Wesley yanks his head back, cutting the words off in his throat. "Hello again, Mr. Nelson. Pleasure to see you. I regret to inform you I'll be taking Mr. Healy's case to a different firm."

"W-what?" Foggy's heart rate is racing, he's confused and terrified. Matt can hear a creaking, the sharp intake of breath when one of his captors shifts his arm, and Matt is filled with fury. They've hurt him, they hurt Foggy. They did something to his arm. 

"Let him go," Matt interrupts before Wesley can reply. "He hasn't done anything, this is between us, let him go."

"Are you playing dumb, Matthew?" Wesley's voice is low, threatening. Filled with anger. The fist in his hair tightens and pulls uncomfortably. "Nothing to do with this? He's seen my face, he works at your firm. And he's touched you." The knife whispers through the air and is at his throat, barely touching the skin. Foggy struggles, yelling his name; the guard holding his injured arm twists it and then kicks behind his knees, forcing him to kneel.

"Don't touch him!" Matt yells at the guard, hears him stiffen, rising; his hand goes to his sidearm but he stills, waiting. "I'm going to kill you," Matt growls.

Wesley huffs a quiet laugh, then abruptly lets go of Matt's hair, the knife moving down. It shifts down to his chest, not touching, just radiating an icy coldness.

Foggy whimpers. "Matty, you're bleeding."

"I'm okay," he says, trying his damnedest to sound calm. Unconcerned. He doesn't care now how much pain he's in, he doesn't care if Wesley vivisects him from head to toe, but he knows in his heart that if he dies, Foggy will be next. "It's okay, Foggy. Just close your eyes. Don't liste-" He can't speak anymore because the pain is excruciating as the knife point slowly works its way into his sternum. It's a well honed blade and it slides into his skin with ease. Wesley doesn't go particularly deep, but it's still agony. Matt is panting again, panicking now knowing Foggy is watching from the way he chokes. "D-don't look. Foggy. C-close your eyes."

Foggy's eyes close so forcefully it makes an audible sound, and Matt is so thankful. Because he's starting to get hard. All these eyes watching him as he bleeds and flinches, all these pounding heartbeats. And Wesley beside him, sliding that knife point down, slicing open his skin with an unbearable slowness.

The blood pours. Streams down his chest, soaks into the waistband of his pants. Breathing hard, Wesley presses against his shoulder and Matt can feel his erection against his arm. 

"Take him into the next room. Gag him," Wesley orders. Weak shuffling as Foggy is forced to his feet; his eyes must have opened, must have seen Matt, because he shouts incoherently and struggles, but the guards drag him away. 

Matt wants to tell him to not struggle, to be calm and stay quiet, he wants to tell him that he's going to save him. But the words stick in his throat. 

When it's the three of them again, Wesley speaks to his own bodyguard. "Francis, please unholster your weapon. If Matthew here fights, at all, please shoot him in the gut. That way he can bleed out slowly while watching me work on his friend." Wesley's face is by Matt's ear now, a quiet murmur. "Did you hear me, Matthew? If you even think of disobeying me, I'll skin him alive in front of you."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It'd be so easy to just give in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Self beta'd, please let me know if there's any mistakes.

Wesley cuts the duct tape off, ripping it off of Matt, making him wince.

"Get on your knees, Matthew." 

Matt grinds his teeth, reminding himself of Foggy in the next room. His weakness made flesh. He has to survive to save Foggy, wait for an opportunity. Wait for the gun to no longer be pointed at him. For Wesley to let his guard down like last time.

Steeling himself against the pain, Matt lowers himself to his knees clumsily, trying not to make his wounds any worse.

"You're much more pliable with incentive," Wesley murmurs approvingly. His free hand, the one without the knife, strokes the bruises on Matt's face. "Open my pants," he commands.

Lip curling up, angry at both Wesley and himself for what those commands do to him, the way his body shivers in anticipation, Matt complies. Wesley's already hard when he pulls him out. No orders are necessary now; Matt leans forward and, hesitating only briefly, he takes the head of Wesley's dick in his mouth, licking and sucking it, before taking the whole length in.

He hears Wesley inhale deeply, hear the knuckles of his hand as he makes a fist. And, further away, the bodyguard is shifting uncomfortably, pulse pounding with excitement. He likes watching, likes what he sees. 

Wesley grabs a handful of Matt's hair and controls his movement and speed that way, his low slick voice murmuring above him. In his mouth, Matt can feel his cock harden further as he comes close to orgasm, when Wesley pushes him away with him foot, sending Matt sprawling.

"On all fours."

Panting, trying to ignore how hard he is, telling himself it's to stall for time, Matt rolls over and gets on hands and knees, head hanging low. The tatters of his shirt are cut the rest of the way off, tossed away. Wesley's hand slides down his smooth back, stroking the bunched muscle and the ridges of his spine.

The blade against his upper back, directly above his shoulder blade, comes as no surprise. He hisses when it slices lightly across his shoulders, one long thin horizontal line. With his other hand, Wesley teases the wound, agitating it, making Matt grit his teeth. Another cut, on his side, and then another. Opposite side from the deep injury weeping blood again. The knife continues to score his side, down to his hip, and Matt starts to pant again. 

Wesley fondles the series of strokes, rubbing Matt's bloody flank, and then the hand is sliding around to his dick, leaving a bloody trail. The touch is lightning, sending electricity to every extremity, and he groans. Wesley slides his hand up and down his erection over his pants, and Matt needs it. He wants it.

Wesley is kneeling behind him, his own dick pressed against Matt's ass, flesh burning hot enough that it feels as if he'll leave a brand.

"F-" Matt tries for defiance, but he's already close to coming. "Fuck you." He manages to spit it out before it turns into a moan. Or worse, a plea. Fuck me.

Wesley senses how close Matt is and pulls away, leaving him shaking and cold.

"Get up," Wesley orders, "on your knees. I like you in that position." As Matt does so, he continues. "I want to watch you as I continue to break you, as every last refuge of willpower is shattered." Slight change in the acoustics of his voice as he turns to address the bodyguard. "Francis, come here."

"No," Matt groans, horrified. But his body ignores all of this, instead it feels like his skin is tingling in anticipation.

The bodyguard stands in front of Matt, gun loose in his hand at his side. He keeps licking his lips, breathing hard.

"Go ahead," Wesley murmurs as he takes a seat, stroking himself lazily. 

Francis undoes his slacks one-handed and pulls himself out. He wraps his hand around Matt's head and pulls him close, rubbing his dick over his lips. Gasping, Matt opens his mouth, and the bodyguard takes advantage of it, pushing himself in.

"Oh, fuck," Francis whispers. "Yes."

There's a war inside Matt. Before, what seems like a century ago, a millennia, he had found himself eager to obey. He wants the instruction, he wants that oily smooth voice in his ear telling him spread your legs, open your eyes, open your mouth. He wants the pain. But that had been before he'd let himself open up to Foggy.

Foggy. In the other room. Waiting for him. Worrying about him. 

Matt knows Francis is about to come. He pictures himself on all fours again, Wesley fucking him in the ass as he sucks Francis, begging for more, all three slick with sweat and blood. God forgive him, he wants it. He wants to be hurt and fucked mercilessly. 

He doesn't let himself think about what he's doing. Instead, he lets instinct take over.

 

\-----

 

Foggy flinches when he hears the gunshots. Two, in quick succession, then three more. Shockingly loud, even in the next room. The three around him tense, one mutters into a mic clipped to his shirt, but there's apparently no reply considering the worried looks on their faces.

It's a small room, practically a closet. Foggy's seated on a filthy wooden chair in the back of the room, gagged and hands bound. They don't expect a problem from him. His left arm already feels painful enough to be a fracture, he's not really up for fighting.

Matt, though. He's tough. Resilient.

But all that blood... And now gunshots.

Two guards approach the doorway, one on either side, cautious.

No amount of caution prepares them for Matt.

He ducks into the room and takes one guard down easily before he can even raise his gun, punching him so hard he passes out. He catches him and flips him over his back into the other guard before taking that guy as a shield and dragging him immediately out of the room. It's over so fast, the remaining guard in the room barely had time to raise his gun.

Foggy knows it was Matt, saw him, but there's no fucking way his blind best friend just did whatever kind of judo shit that was. 

The remaining guard is hesitant, understandably, but goes towards the door.

When he's close enough, Matt pops in low, grabbing his leg and pulling it out from under him. When the man crashes to the ground, it only takes a couple of solid punches before he's out cold too. 

Foggy forces the gag from his mouth, spitting it out. "M-Matty?"

That face, that familiar gorgeous face, turns to him, the eyes still blankly moving, unfocused, head cocked to listen better.

"What just happened?" Foggy asks.

Matt stands and rushes to him, pulling him up and into a tight embrace, crushing Foggy's hands between them. He's covered in blood, actually smells of old copper, like a bad penny. Foggy is afraid to touch him, afraid of hurting him.

"I'll explain later," is all Matt says from where he's buried his face in Foggy's neck. When he pulls away to undo the rope binding, Foggy can see he's quietly crying. 

"It's okay, Matty," Foggy murmurs, confused and frightened. When his hands are finally free, he wipes away the tears and dirt and blood on that beautiful face. "It's gonna be okay."

As they leave, hand in hand, Foggy glances back into the room Matt was in. The dark-haired man, the one that hired them, he's thrown back in a chair, blood pouring out of him from the five gunshot wounds. Two to his torso, three to his head, mangling his face.

Foggy looks away as Matt leads them out of the building.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, it's over! I hope the ending was okay. I just want to say thank you again everyone for your comments, they really kept me going and made my day. You guys are the best!!!


End file.
